


Dragonsick

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Possession, bilbo suffers, dragon sickness is literal, h/c, smaug wants revenge, thorin suffers too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As dragons vanish from earth, knowledge of their kind, too, dwindles. Smaug the Terrible may have fallen to an arrow. But dragons are, after all, magical creatures.</p>
<p>And Smaug’s spirit endured as Thorin and Bilbo must find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As the world falls apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teaDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/gifts).



> If dark and angsty things are not your cup of tea, please turn around now. Else, enjoy!
> 
> (Happy Birthday, Sonya!)

Dragons have ever been magical creatures. From the moment they were called into being, their appearances marked unexplained events and holes torn into the fabric of history. Sudden shifts without explanation and unforeseen outcomes to ancient tales.

Yet as time went by, dragons have vanished from the surface of earth, one by one, and so passed from knowledge. Most remembered them for their fearsome size and terrible deeds, their terrible intellect and breath-taking grandeur.

Their magic and the events they altered, do not figure in these recollection.

So when Smaug is slain and his physical shape falls into the lake below, a large sigh of relief goes through the company of Thorin Oakenshield. Even the Laketown folks – those that have not perished and lost everything to the fire – feel how the great shadow that laid upon them passes.

Smaug the Great falls. His magical form, however, endures.

And he will have his revenge.

***

One moment Thorin Oakenshield watches Laketown burn. In the next gold shifts beneath his feet and he holds (preciouspreciousprecious) jewels in his hands.

He blinks, looks up.

A golden light fills the grand treasury, yet nothing moves. His companions seem to be missing – or perhaps he just cannot see them? The air feels hot, unnaturally still and suffocating; Smaug may have gone but his afterimage lingers.

Thorin hopes his companions will soon arrive and banish Smaug’s memory so that the mountain may be filled with new life and the curse removed from it. He drops the jewels back into the hoard and straightens. There are other things to do – the treasure will wait.

***

The dwarves cheer the moment they enter the treasury, and Bilbo feels his heart ease. Still the memory of Laketown burning is seared on the back of his eyelids and makes his insides twist with guilt. If he’d better controlled his words, if he had just managed to make Smaug stay –

But he failed, and the men paid the price.

Bilbo swallows glumly.

“Master Baggins,” a familiar voice calls out and Bilbo glances up to find Thorin has come up to him, “Why do you stay so far from us?”

The rest of the company has made their way into the treasury, marveling at their finds. Their laughter arrives at Bilbo’s current place as an echo: distant and pale, and Bilbo wonders whether all this treasure can truly cause a smile when they just watched so many perish.

He forces a small smile for Thorin’s sake. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling very celebratory,” Bilbo says, and watches for Thorin’s reaction. He’d seen the dwarf turn his back on the burning town. Back then he’d been too shocked to react. Now he wonders if Thorin truly cares so little.

How can he when he watched his own home fall to a dragon?

Thorin’s eyes soften. “I understand,” he says and reaches out to wrap an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder, “Yet you must understand that it was a matter of time until Smaug would have turned his eyes onto the town.”

A part of Bilbo understands and yet. “They might have prepared –“

Thorin sighs. “Every dwarven town and kingdom likely to be attacked by a dragon has plans for such an event. When we lost Erebor –“ his eyes grow distant, as an old pain creeps into them, “We lost many. And yet had there not been plans for such an eventuality we would have lost far more.”

He draws Bilbo a little closer and turns them to the treasure. “The Master obviously had no such plans even though he knew of the danger lurking on their doorstep – unless Laketown gained a competent Master I do not believe the town would have fared better at another time.”

Bilbo bites down on his lower lip, mind still struggling to catch up. Of course, Smaug is the one that burned and killed – but how about their responsibility? Does the fact that it was Smaug who wrought death and destruction truly absolve their company? The warmth flowing from Thorin into his own body makes him relax a little, though.

“And yet, such a needless loss of life. I wish there was something I could have done.”

“And that is proof of your kindness,” Thorin says, voice hardening, “For others looked upon the same situation and did nothing.”

He’s referring to Thranduil. And now that Bilbo himself has stood on the mountain and watched a town burn – too far to even hear the screams of the dying – he finds himself incapable of understanding. How could the elf king not at least have lent aid to the survivors?

“What will you do?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin grows quiet, eyes sliding over the treasure before them. “What I can.”

***

When morning comes, the light inside the mountain does not change. Bilbo yawns, and stretches, his back cracking. The small chamber next to the treasury does not provide much in comfort – but it is warm and with the cloths they carried in, he slept quite decently.

Next to him Thorin continues to breathe evenly, dark hair fanning out below him.

With a soft smile Bilbo reaches out. Already the memories of yesterday trickle in, and he finds the darkness returns to his heart. He wonders what the future will bring – now that Thorin has retaken his mountain, now that their quest has ended.

Will he still wish for the company of a strange hobbit?

Thorin shifts, his eyes flicker. They glow from beneath a lock of hair and Bilbo leans down to press a short kiss to those lips. Just a quick peck before they must go and face the day –

He feels Thorin’s lips part, a tongue sneak out. Hands come up, wrap around him –

And then he slams into the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Pain explodes in his shoulder, the hands in his hair are hard, unforgiving. Bilbo opens his mouth to complain, but his shout is swallowed by a tongue pushing forward intently.

Bilbo twitches, hands flying up and clutching at Thorin’s shoulders, but he is helpless against Thorin’s hands. The King under the Mountain holds him tightly in place as his tongue delves deeper. Blackness begins to dance at the edges of Bilbo’s vision, but he just closes his eyes and allows Thorin’s warmth to surround him completely.

It’s like drowning; drowning in pleasant, wonderful emotions.

His body has turned to jelly when Thorin releases him. A deep chuckle echoes somewhere above Bilbo, and a hoarse voice murmurs: “Rest a bit longer, little burglar.”

***

Thorin finds himself walking toward the treasury. His steps falter momentarily – he can’t quite recall getting up, or where Bilbo is. They went to sleep together; he remembers watching the hobbit drift off and those worried ceased on his face smooth out.

Did Bilbo sneak out during the night? No matter how hard he tries, Thorin doesn’t know whether or not Bilbo was still with him when he got up in the morning.

He frowns. Small memory lapses in daily routines are not abnormal. But tomorrow, he promises himself, he will pay more attention.

Bilbo deserves that much at the very least.

***

Bilbo joins the company later than he intended. After Thorin left him, he needed rather longer to regather himself. His knees still feel shaky, but at least yesterday’s grief seems more distant – if no less dire.

He pushes those dark thoughts away.

When he reaches, though, he finds the company sifting through the treasure with deep frowns. Kili and Fili joke, but their good humor from the previous day seems to have evaporated.

“What is going on?” Bilbo inquires of the nearest dwarf.

Dori glances at him. “The Arkenstone, Master Baggins,” he explains, “Thorin demands we find it before the day is out.”

“Huh,” Bilbo comments airily, though his chest tightens. Whatever happened to helping Laketown and reclaiming Erebor?

“You didn’t happen to come across it when you first went down here?” Gloin asks from where he is more or less digging a hole into the treasure. With it piling meters high, none of them have made much progress.

“I don’t think so,” Bilbo says, “What’s so important about it, anyway?”

“The King’s jewel,” Gloin snorts, “Once Thorin has it he can ask the other dwarven kingdoms to stand by the oath they swore on it.”

“But the dragon’s dead,” Kili mutters, having drawn close, “Why would he need it now?”

Gloin shrugs and turns back to his digging project. Bilbo wonders the same, and the only answer Dori gives comes down to: “It’s a symbolic stone. Some say it’s magic, too.”

***

Half-way to the Hall of Kings Thorin realizes that he can’t remember what he told his companions. He remembers going up, commending them, intending to speak on future plans. But when he tries to recall what he said, his mind goes utterly blank.

It’s as if he never said a thing.

Thorin shakes his head with a frown. This is getting ridiculous.

***

Bilbo hurries down the corridor, a frown on his face. What on earth was Thorin thinking – ordering everybody to search for a stone when they have much more pressing issues to address? What about Laketown; what about food? Their supplies are dwindling, they need to make arrangements. The stone can wait.

When he bursts into the Hall of Kings, Thorin stands before the throne, eyes fixed on the empty spot above it. Bilbo freezes for a moment, then pushes on. This is Thorin – his ridiculous dwarf. Who is being particularly ridiculous right now.

“Thorin,” he calls, voice sharp and clear.

The King turns and watches Bilbo with a strange expression. Or perhaps it is the light – even his eyes seem to be another color right now.

A shudder runs down Bilbo spine, but he firmly ignores the drop to his left and right or the sacred atmosphere surrounding the pedestal around the throne and stomps up.

“Thorin, we need to talk,” he bursts out, “Did you really tell them to find the stone or else? Don’t you think we have –“

Thorin gestures at him to be silent, and Bilbo finds himself complying against his will. “I know you worry,” Thorin tells him, corners of his mouth twitching in a parody of a smile. Annoyance curls in Bilbo’s stomach. “But you needn’t concern yourself. Once the stone is found, all shall set to rights.”

His face darkens.

“Thorin, you are –“ Bilbo begins, shifting uneasily.

“Hush, little thief,” Thorin gestures, “There are more visitors here.”

He beckons for Bilbo to stand aside, as Balin and Dwalin march up the way Bilbo came. They stop below the steps leading up, and the air abruptly grows tense and heavy. Bilbo’s chest grows tight, and he freezes, wishing he had stayed in the treasury.

Thorin barely regards him, but he can feel both Balin and Dwalin watch him closely. I’ve got nothing to do with Thorin’s madness, he wants to scream. And hit Thorin over the head with his bloody stone – but there is a hint of true darkness to Thorin’s raving tones, and that keeps Bilbo glued to his spot. Instead he watches as Thorin lays into his oldest companions as if they were unruly and foolish children.

Something is not right.

All the hairs on Bilbo’ arms stand when Balin and Dwalin have shuffled away. Thorin paces like a caged animal, everything about him screaming coiled tension and danger, and a part of Bilbo wants to run.

But this is Thorin, he tells himself.

His foolish dwarf. The one that kissed him into an inch of his life just earlier this morning.

So he presses his lips together, shoves back the kernel of unease and walks up to Thorin. The dwarf’s eyes narrow – they still look off-color.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says without bothering to hide his exasperation, “What on earth has gotten into you? Do you truly doubt the loyalty of your company? The ones who faced a dragon on your behalf?”

Thorin whirls around faster than Bilbo has ever seen him move. He’s completely unprepared for the hands that shoot forward and wrap themselves around his shoulders like iron claws. Hard fingers dig into the muscle there and his bones creak in protest.

“What -, Thorin, Thorin, that hurts!” Bilbo shrieks, but the King does not let him go. Instead glowing eyes narrow as they focus on Bilbo.

“Where is it?” he hisses.

Bilbo’s eyes burn. “What?” he croaks, “What are you talking about?”

“The stone,” Thorin clarifies, a wild gleam filling his eyes, “You must know where it is, it was just there before, and now it’s gone. Do you truly not know where it has vanished to, thief in the shadows?”

Fear seeps into Bilbo’s heart. “Thorin?” he asks, because the dwarf before him suddenly looks like a stranger, and there is no light of familiarity in Thorin’s eyes to be found. Instead they rake over him as if he could read the answer and his grip grows ever tighter.

“Answer me!” Thorin shouts and shakes Bilbo hard.

The hobbit’s knees give out, and his vision flickers. He hangs from Thorin’s hard grasp, and the dwarf pays no attention to Bilbo batting weakly at his wrists. Instead he gives him another shake. “Answer now!”

“Thorin, no, Thorin, stop it,” Bilbo mumbles, his tongue thick and his head aching, “I told you already, I don’t know.”

“You lie!” Thorin hisses and dives forward. Scant inches separate his face from Bilbo’s, yet there’s no intimacy, and Bilbo hunches back as far as Thorin’s unforgiving grip allows.

“I don’t –“

“You lie, I know this,” Thorin says, “Where did you hide the stone, thief? Tell me and I may spare your life.”

Bilbo’s heart jumps in frights. This isn’t Thorin, Bilbo thinks with growing desperation, this isn’t Thorin, but whatever this is, it looks just like him. But what happened, when did it happen and how-

“I’m not lying,” he protests, weakly, turning wide, beseeching eyes onto the King under the Mountain.

Thorin’s face twists into an unrecognizable grimace. Rage burns into his eyes and he releases Bilbo’s shoulder, only to catch his wrist and twist his arm behind his back. Bilbo stumbles, and smacks into the cold marble of the throne, a sharp spike of pain running up from his nose. Thorin hikes his arm up behind his back, and the tendons in Bilbo’s arm scream in blinding pain.

“Stop it, stop it, Thorin, please!” he pleads, voice rising in terror. Fear makes his blood run cold, because Thoin won’t, can’t – But the pain spirals higher and higher as Thorin twists his wrist behind his back.

Thorin’s unforgiving grip tightens. “Then tell me where it is,” he demands.

But whatever happened to Thorin, Bilbo thinks, he cannot let him have the stone. Not when it’s driven him so mad already, not when he does not know what else might happen. His own heartbeat echoes in his head, frantic and fluttery, and breaking into pieces, because this can’t be Thorin.

“I don’t –“

“Liar,” Thorin judges and with a crack the bone in Bilbo’s arm gives.

He’s screaming. Even before the white, blinding noise turns into fiery pain, Bilbo screams, high and shrill, as his arm goes numb and icy and hot at the same time. Only the need for air stops him, and then Bilbo is barely getting enough. Tears burn in his eyes, and something wet and sticky runs from his nose, but the pain in his arm is so much worse than everything; it’s all-encompassing, devouring. His mind frazzles.

“Tell me,” Thorin demands, coldly.

With a choked sob Bilbo turns onto his side. The claws holding him have vanished, but Thorin still hovers above him, face unmoved and cruel.

Bilbo wishes he could wake from this nightmare.

Because this can’t be happening. This isn’t Thorin, and the pain in his arm can’t be real, and this –

“Speak!” Thorin shouts and Bilbo flinches.

The pain’s blurring his thoughts and time, and his vision fades in and out. He pulls his throbbing arm to his chest, carefully cradling it, though now the cold marble of the throne bores into his back, and he’s caught before the merciless King. Or that bad parody pretending to be Thorin.

“I’ve not hidden it,” Bilbo chokes out, “You’d have known.” Because his Thorin stayed at his side until Dale burned, because his Thorin came down to find him when Smaug went on a rampage.

Thorin’s eyes narrow, their pupils almost slits. Something eerily snake-like lingers in them, and for a moment they overlap with other, larger eyes and Bilbo is about to dismiss the notion as a pain-induced absurdity, when Thorin’s voice speaks as the echo of another: “But I watched you, thief in the shadows. I know you can go unseen if you wish. So tell me – where is the Arkenstone?”

He towers over Bilbo, fists clenched and eyes cold and unfeeling. Barely anything of the Thorin Bilbo knows and adores remains, and he finds his heart simultaneously breaking and hardening. The steady throb of pain shaking his body blurs his thoughts, but he clings to his resolution not to allow this betrayal.

Whatever this is, he will not be an instrument in Thorin’s downfall. For the sake of the dwarf he followed across Arda, Bilbo closes his eyes and shakes his head.

Thorin roars.

***

Thorin is half-way out of the Hall of Kings when he blinks, takes in his surroundings and realizes he has no idea what happened during the last hours. Last he remembers is making for this hall in order to see after the throne and assess the usability.

But if he has done it, he has no memory of it.

Thorin brings up a hand to rub at his aching temple. A dull pain resonates through his head, and maybe that’s behind his sudden onset of amnesia. But it doesn’t matter – he needs to assess the place, and now will have to do it twice.

With a sigh he turns around, marches back toward the throne. The hall has taken little damage, he notes to himself, eyeing the pillars and the ceiling. Some cracks in the marble, but nothing unfixable. Nothing that would undermine the structural integrity of the place.

Usable, Thorin thinks to himself, annoyed at having to do the assessment twice when he could be back with his company, discussing their future movements. They need to plan, and him forgetting time and things is not being useful.

Thorin notices a lump lying before the throne. From the distance he cannot tell what it is, but it does not look like fallen stone. Rather like a bundle of fabrics. He frowns, narrows his eyes.

Fabrics yes, his eyes inform him as he draws closer. A familiar blue coat – and fear surges through Thorin abruptly, he breaks into a run, because this is no bundle of fabrics, this is no left-over of fleeing dwarves, but a small hobbit lying curled up before Erebor’s stone throne.

Unmoving.

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts, voice hitching, “Bilbo!”

There’s blood on the stone’s green marble, Thorin sees. His heart races in panic, as he stumbles up the five stairs, and falls down onto his knees before the silent form of his beloved. What and when – he doesn’t remember Bilbo being here, why did he not see him?

What is going on?

Bilbo doesn’t stir, has his eyes closed and his face is pale, underneath the blood. He breathes, quietly, but it does not quell the nameless terror raging in Thorin, does not stop the ice from closing in around his heart.

What happened to him? How could this –

Thorin reaches out to touch Bilbo with a shaking hand. It freezes in mid-air.

Because his hand, he sees now, is covered in drying blood.

_tbc_


	2. Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath: while shell-shocked at what occured, the dwarves and Bilbo rally. Once they begin to put the pieces together, it is not difficult to discover the truth: just who is behind Thorin's changed behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ... fought me. Badly. And I'm not entirely sure who won.

Thorin gently lifts Bilbo's unmoving form in his arms. The hobbit does not stir and now Thorin sees the dark bruise on his swelling nose, the blood beneath and the yet sluggishly bleeding cut on the side of his forehead. His wrist is bent at an awkward angle, already blossoming in blues and purples. The other arm dangles, bearing bruises and scratches.

Defensive wounds.

Thorin suppresses the storm roaring inside his chest. Concentrating on setting one foot in front of the other is better than allowing the black maelstrom to surge and devour him.

For there is no denying it: it was him who hurt Bilbo.

He has no memory of even raising a hand. Cannot recall Bilbo entering the Hall of Kings. But Bilbo's blood is on his hands, and those bruises on the hobbit's broken wrist match his fingers.

His footsteps echo in the empty corridor; a solemn rhythm to accompany a terrifying realization: those memory lapses he experienced were never just that. They were never ordinary, and Thorin should have never just discarded them.

He may not understand what would drive him to ever lift a hand against his burglar, yet his body moved. Whether by some strange magic or due to something intrinsically wrong with Thorin himself, he cannot say. And it does not matter either, since it doesn't change that he has no control.  
That there is no check to the damage he may bring when changed.

The damage that has already been done.

Thorin swallows and looks down at Bilbo's pale face. His expression is nearly peaceful, only a small crease between his eyebrows betrays the pain that haunts him even in unconsciousness. Too seldom has Thorin looked upon Bilbo peacefully asleep. Too much time he wasted on a groundless grudge, and now that his hopes could have come into fruition, now that that sentiment between Bilbo and him has blossomed, he himself has torn it apart.

Will he ever see Bilbo like this again?

He does not deserve it. Whether Bilbo will hate and despise him, or wish to move him to the other side of earth, Thorin will bow his head and follow. He deserves no less than Bilbo's rage and hatred for his actions.

(Fear, too, but Thorin wishes he would not cause this. Not when Bilbo's bravery is like a bright beacon that Thorin wishes untouched by his own failings)

***

"Uncle - what happened to Bilbo?"

Fili jumps up the moment Thorin returns to the treasury. The other members of the company turn, and Thorin stops in the doorway, the glint of the gold now dull to his eyes.

"Oin, Dwalin," he calls, "Come with me."

He sees Fili and Kili eye him warily, teeming on the brink of just running over to him and his heart breaks for the disappointment he must foister upon them. "Fili, you and Balin as well. Everyone else, go back to your duties!"

His dwarves are truly loyal souls. Despite their curiosity and unease, they turn their backs on Thorin and trudge back into the treasury, pursing their duties. (Duties Thorin finds he can't quite name)

Fili and Dwalin are there first, Balin and Oin arrive a moment after them. Balin takes one look at Bilbo and mutters under his breath, while Dwalin clenches his fists. "What happened?" he asks through grinded teeth.

Thorin looks down and steers them away from the treasury. At least his feet still recall the way to the healing chambers.

Hopefully Oin will be able to help Bilbo.

He swallows. "Oin, I need you to care for Bilbo. Make sure he lacks for nothing - I don't care if you have to give away half the mountain for it."

"Thorin, lad?" Balin asks, disquiet in his voice. Thorin can feel the air change, can sense his companions growing uneasy.

"Fili and Balin, you need to take care of Erebor. I would ask you to care well for her, but consider this a request at most."

"Uncle?"

"Dwalin, find a place to lock me up, and don't let me out until you find Gandalf." He hears Dwalin suck in a sharp breath.

"Laddie, what in the world happened?" Balin asks.

Thorin sighs. "I do not remember. I know I was the one who hurt Bilbo, yet I cannot even recall him coming after me. It is not the first time I have lost track of time recently - but what I thought were small lapses of attention may be something worse. And if during these periods of unconsciousness, I already hurt Bilbo I fear what else I will do should you allow me to roam."

They have grown pale and solemn. Fear lights Fili's eyes, while grim determination has come across Dwalin's features - it's the same expression he wore when marching on Moria. Thorin wishes he'd never have to see it again.

Balin breaks the silence. "Are you sure?"

Thorin nods, and Oin finally shuffles past him toward Bilbo. Thorin reaches out to brush blood-stained curls from Bilbo's forehead one last time before rising.

"I'll look after him," Oin promises, "and then I'll take a look at you. Maybe it's something simple."

Thorin doubts it, but he inclines his head toward Oin in thanks before stepping toward Dwalin. On the way, he stops to clap Fili's shoulder. "Tell the others what happened," Thorin asks of him, "Should I lose myself entirely, do not hesitate to end it - I do not wish to continue as some sort of monster. May you rule Erebor for many prosperous years to come!"

He steps past before his nephew can reply. He feels Fili waver behind him, an exclamation just behind closed lips - but with Thorin moving on, he hopes his nephew will not protest what might just be the last request of the King under the Mountain.

Dwalin inclines his head. "Where?" he asks, and though his voice is even, Thorin hears the pain within.

"The dungeons perhaps," Thorin guesses.

Balin shakes his head. "Nay, I say the King's working chambers. There are no secret entrances or exits, and they are furnished." It's a bit too luxurious for Thorin's taste. After what he did to Bilbo -

Dwalin nods. "Aye, we go there." So Thorin complies.

They turn away from the little chamber, climb one staircase and over the echo of their footsteps, Balin begins to ask questions.

"You said to inquire with Gandalf - do you think there is magic at play?"

Thorin sighs. "I do not know. I know nothing beyond that I haven't frequently lost track of time, returned to myself in another place and thought nothing wrong of it."

Balin frowns. "Do you think you might be under some spell?”

“I would not know whence I came under it,” Thorin replies, “And I will not risk any of my company while the reason for my madness is unclear.”

Balin inclines his head sharply. Bilbo’s bloodied form has shocked them deeply. “I understand. We’ll send the fastest ravens. Gandalf should be here in a fortnight.”

All Thorin can say is thank you.

***

Bilbo wakes in a daze. His mind swims in a familiar haze caused by the mixture of pain and strong remedies. Something feels wrong with his body, deeply wrong, but it’s a general sensation. He keeps his eyes closed, intend to float a little longer amid the darkness.

“… should heal,” somebody is saying, and the voice is familiar.

“Uncle will be glad to hear it,” another replies and Bilbo’s mind begins to whirl. Something stirs in him, some buried notion of urgency and importance and he finds the darkness evaporating. Pains and aches set him – a sharp throb running up his arm, a dull ache pounding in his head and a strange, constricting sort of discomfort that assails him when he tries to breathe in deeply.

“Bilbo?” somebody asks, “Bilbo, are you awake?”

Bilbo’s eyes flutter, and as he concentrates the blob before him becomes a worried-looking Kili.

“Oh, they’ll be glad to see you awake,” the young dwarf proclaims, “How are you feeling? Do you remember what happened? We have –“

“Alright, lad, let him breathe,” Oin interrupts gruffly and gently pushes Kili out of the way, “Let’s make sure our Master Burglar’s all here with us first, before you attack him with questions.”

His mind’s all there, thank you very much, Bilbo wants to say, but the sharp ache when he sucks in a deep breath stops him from speaking out abruptly. His vision flickers, and he hears the pained whine before he realized the sound emerged from his own throat.

“Relax lad, relax,” Oin tells him, fingers set against his racing pulse, “It’s all well.”

It’s not, Bilbo wants to shout, it’s not, because the memories rush back, like pieces of a half-forgotten nightmare. He cannot believe these fragments have really happened; they seem too much like a piece of ill-thought-out fiction.

But the bruises on his body are real.

“Bilbo,” Oin calls and this time Bilbo looks to him and his eyes focus, “Are you with us?”

Bilbo tries to nod, and is grateful when the movement only results in a minor twinge running down his chest.

“Well then,” Oin takes a deep breath and sets off with a catalogue of questions designed to determine whether or not Bilbo’s memory has been affected. But after Bilbo confirms that he remembers his name, the names of everybody else present and how he got here, Oin relents.

“Seems you’re head’s fine,” he concludes, “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d be sporting a headache for a couple of days. Tell me, if it gets too bad.”

There’s a dull throb building up already, Bilbo thinks and idly brushes his fingers against the coarse bandages wrapped around his head. He must look a fright with both his head and his hand wrapped and a cut on his nose on top.

“Your wrist will take a while to heal,” Oin continues, moving away from the bed, “It’s a clean break, so if you don’t do anything reckless, it should heal just fine. Same with the cut on your nose and those on your arms – I cleaned them out; they shouldn’t scar. You have quite some bruises all over, so expect some stiffness during the next couple of days, and remember to tell me if anything gets worse. Now, does anything else hurt?”

Even his toes feel bruised, Bilbo assesses, but they move easily enough when he wriggles them. “My chest?” he says tentatively, because his ribcage smarts whenever his lungs try to expand.

Oin sighs. “Bruised as well. It’ll wear off in a few days, though.”

“You’ll get used to it pretty soon,” somebody else says, and Bilbo turns to glance at Kili who offers a pale smile, “It fades into the background pretty fast.”

“What the lad says,” Oin agrees with a brisk nod, “Now, I think Balin mentioned wanting to talk to you. If you’re up to it…”

For a split second Bilbo is back in the Hall of the Kings and Thorin hovers threateningly above him. Then he closes his eyes, and allows the memory to fade away. “Alright,” Bilbo mutters, already bracing himself for what he must face, “Tell him to come.”

Oin nods, though Kili steps up to his bedside. “You don’t have to do it,” he tells Bilbo, “Not if you’re not up to it. Ori’s already in the library, trying to figure out what happened. Even Gloin’s gone to help him. You can rest if you want to.”

Tension curls Kili’s lips and his eyes shine wetly and Bilbo finds his heart goes out to the young dwarf. So he reaches out with his hale hand as far as he can and tugs on Kili’s sleeve.

“Kili,” he says quietly and catches his eye, “Whatever hurt me, it was not your uncle.”

Kili jumps, his eyes widen. “But –“

Bilbo sighs. He doesn’t quite want to recall – his fingers still tremble when he thinks of it, and the fear has left a bitter taste in the back of his throat – but in order to sort out this mess he will face his memories.

“Yes, it was him. His body at least,” Bilbo says, “But I saw his eyes. That was somebody different.”

Kili swallows. “I … I guess I should call everyone for this?”

“It may be for the better.”

***

It takes a while to get everybody in the small room. Oin mutters about letting his patient rest and makes Bilbo promise by all that is sacred to inform him the moment he starts feeling unwell. Bilbo nods obediently, surveying the dwarves trudging inside.

There is a grim, determined set to Dwalin’s face, while Balin looks deeply grieved. Tension has made Fili’s shoulders stiff and Dori appears rather pale. Nori catches Bilbo’s eye and inclines his head, expression thoughtful. A worried cease sits between Bombur’s brows, while Bofur looks at Bilbo with unveiled sympathy and when his gaze shifts his mouth turns into a hard line. Bilbo feels suddenly all too conscious of his desolate state.

He clears his throat. “Concerning Thorin,” he begins and the entire room sucks in a deep breath, “It wasn’t him.”

“What do you mean?” Dori exclaims, leaning forward, while Bifur shouts something in Khuzdul. Dwalin shakes his head violently and Bofur sits up, saying “But he did it! We all know it!”. Gloin nods in confirmation and Balin looks searchingly at Bilbo. “Why are you saying that?”

Bilbo looks at his friends. Sees the subdued anger, worry and hope in their faces and takes a deep breath. “Because whatever attacked me – that wasn’t Thorin. He … changed. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t him.”

He thinks of the strange shifts in Thorin’s behavior lately. It only makes too much sense – for one moment Thorin intended to help the Laketown survivors and in the next he had grown obsessed with the Arkenstone.

“It might make sense,” Balin offers cautiously, “He said he couldn’t remember a thing.”

“Who said?” Bilbo asks, just as Nori says, “And he might be lying.”

Balin looks at Bilbo and grimaces. “Thorin. He was the one to bring you to Gloin. Told us what happened.”

“Or what he inferred had happened,” Ori pipes up, “He doesn’t remember.”

Bilbo blinks, licks his lips. It makes a surprising lot of sense. “Nothing at all?” he asks to Ori.

“Well, not everything,” Ori explains, “He said there were large chunks of time missing. He didn’t quite notice at first since it seemed all normal.But he said he ended up finding himself in a place he had no memory of going to.”

Which makes the sudden shifts in Thorin’s behavior even more understandable.

“He doesn’t remember lifting a hand against Bilbo either,” Fili adds.

“Then what is it?” Bofur asks, atypically harshly, “What made him act like this?” He casts an apologetic glance into Bilbo’s direction before continuing. “Something is obviously not alright, and this sounds like magic. Now, I don’t understand much of it, but I’m not going to stand by and look the other way.”

“Nobody’s looking the other way,” Dwalin protests gruffly.

“No?” Bofur asks, eyebrows rising so high they disappear under his hat, “And where were you looking when Bilbo got hurt?”

Dwalin’s mouth turns down. “The same way you were, I believe.”

“Everybody,” Balin interrupts sharply before the situation can escalate, “I think we should return to the issue at hand.”

Bofur snorts, but says no more. Dwalin glares at him for a moment longer before returning his attention to Balin. Bilbo purses his lips unhappily. He hadn’t quite anticipated the fallout – but Thorin’s orders have sat wrong with many of his company for a while now.

“What about the Lakemen?” Bilbo asks, “Have they come?”

Fili inclines his head, while Gloin responds with a frown. “Aye, but Thorin ordered us to turn them away.”

“Have they come again since?” Bilbo asks.

“No, but they set up camp in Dale,” Gloin says, “I think they hope to survive the winter there, but with the town in ruins…”

“And Thorin never gave orders to help them in any way?” Bilbo asks to make certain. He remembers Thorin telling him he would do what he can – but before Bilbo the company remains silent.

“Well,” Bilbo says with a shrug, “Before he changed, Thorin told me he would help them. And knowing what we do now – shouldn’t we help?”  
He still can see Laketown burning when he closes his eyes. And that memory fills him with a terror many times greater than Thorin lifting a hand in anger against him. Knowing just how much red stains his own fingers –

Balin looks to Fili. “He asked you to care for the mountain.”

Fili shifts under the responsibility. Bilbo can see how poorly prepared for the crown the young dwarf is – but they all are ill-prepared for what Erebor demands of them.

“I will see to it,” Fili solemnly announces, “I believe coming to an agreement with the Lakemen is in our best interest.”

General noises of agreement meet his words, and Dori is the one to return to the heart of their issues. “That is all well, but what do we do about our King? People will ask questions. And we can’t keep him locked up forever.”

Fili and Kili pale at the idea. Something inside Bilbo clenches violently. He’ll not give up on his dwarf, not when he remembers the clear blue of Thorin’s eyes and the affection in them before they changed color.

“We find out triggered the change,” he states, sounding surer than he feels.

Balin’s lips twitch upward. “We’ve already sent a raven off to find Gandalf. It may take a while to hear from him.”

“And Ori and Gloin have started looking through the library?” Bilbo inquires, “What about that sickness? Lord Elrond mentioned something about a strand of sickness running in Thorin’s line.”

A number of dwarves stiffen at that.

“Goldsickness,” Kili offers after a long, tense moment, “They say Thror – our great-grandfather – became obsessed with the treasure and that brought the dragon to the mountain.”

“He was certainly obsessed with the treasure,” Nori adds, “Didn’t want a single coin to go to Laketown.”

“And had everybody looking for the Arkenstone,” Bombur adds.

Bilbo nods. Carefully turns the details over in his head. It would make sense. Only – “Does the Goldsickness make your eyes change color?”

“No,” Balin says, looking questioningly at Bilbo, “Why?”

“When Thorin went mad,” Bilbo says, because there is really no other description for the moment when Thorin broke his wrist, “His eyes changed.”

The dwarves look at one another. “That has never been recorded,” Ori offers quietly, “I don’t think it’s a symptom of the Goldsickness.”

“What color did his eyes turn?” Fili asks.

“Gold,” Bilbo says, “Gold like Smaug’s.”

***

Several lines have already been crossed out on the parchment before Thorin. This, as many attempts before, will likely end up feeding the fire. He glares at the parchment once more, before sinking back with a defeated sigh. The words never seem quite right.

He is not unfamiliar with phrasing delicate issues. But whenever he shifts into the familiar diplomatic phrases, it feels like a lie. Always, always those words seem to downplay his own deeds, seem to make light of the harm. And Bilbo does not deserve this.

Thorin raises his hands. The blood has been washed off and he changed clothes – but he feels he can still feel the afterimage of dried blood sticking to his skin. Bilbo looked so terribly pale –

He should have noticed it earlier. Much earlier.

Now, the damage has been done.

A sharp knock at the door interrupts his ruminations. “Thorin,” Balin calls, “Thorin, we’d like to talk to you.”

Thorin jerks upright. “Don’t open the door,” he calls back. For what if he blacks out again? What if this time he wakes and stands over a dead body?

“Alright,” Balin returns and Thorin gets the impression there are more people outside.

“Thorin,” another voice says, a voice Thorin hadn’t expected to hear anytime soon or possibly ever again. Bilbo, though, sounds quite certain and only a little hoarse, “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Of course,” Thorin returns after a beat, trying to calm his racing heart, “Everything.” Guilt and hope war in his chest, and he really shouldn’t be expecting anything, certainly not from Bilbo.

Goosebumps rise on his arms. Something in his chest shifts, and Thorin forces himself to take deep breath. “Everything,” he repeats.  
Shuffling outside, before Bilbo’s voice calls again. “Do you recall what you asked me for?”

Thorin swallows down the dread threatening to close up his throat. “The last I recall talking to you was – two days ago, I believe? We talked about the fate of the Laketown survivors.”

A flurry of whispers arises on the other side of the door. The pounding in Thorin’s chest grows stronger.

“And what was your plan for them?” Balin asks.

“Help them,” Thorin replies, though his chest clenches. His fingers shake for some reason.

“And we will,” Bilbo promises softly, “Thorin, can you remember – do you have any idea what could be causing this? Did you come across some strange magic item? Anything?”

He’d recall that, Thorin thinks. All dwarves possess stone sense and can tell when objects have been infused with magic. Especially a magic so strong as to manipulate him. It would need to be some object of great power, something truly special.

Something like the Arkenstone.

He barely catches the rush rising up in the chest before the world darkens.

***

Bilbo glances at Balin when Thorin falls silent. Balin grimaces, as does Dwalin, so Bilbo turns to the door again. He wishes he could see Thorin, could read his body language. But –

Something slams against the door.

He jerks back, heart leaping into his throat. Balin flinches, and Dwalin has his axe out before Bilbo can even blink. The door vibrates, creates as some great power presses against it.

“Are you still there, little thief?” Thorin croons, and all hairs on Bilbo’s arms stand. This is not Thorin, this barely even sounds like him. “Have you told them where you have hidden it yet?”

Bilbo heart trembles. “I told you before, I am not hiding anything,” he says, attempting to sound confident, “Who are you and what have you done with Thorin?”

Cold, dissonant laughter.

Dwalin frowns darkly, while Balin has grown pale. Bilbo remembers hard hands on his body, cold sweat covers his back and his wrist begins to throb. He cradles it closer, backs away from the door unconsciously.

“But I am the King under the Mountain, barrel-rider,” Not-Thorin spits.

Bilbo takes a deep, shaky breath to steady himself. Looks to Balin and Dwalin, and then turns back toward the door.

“But are you Thorin Oakenshield?” he asks.

“Why don’t you open this door and find out for yourself, riddle-maker?”

***

“It’s Smaug,” Bilbo tells the dwarves late in the evening. He’s exhausted and yet too wound-up to sleep. “There is no doubt about it. The names he called me – only Smaug knows of those.”

“How could Smaug know –“ Kili begins, but is shushed by the others.

Bilbo runs a shaking hand through his hair, though is catches on the bandage. His other hand throbs where it rests in his lap. A cup of steaming tea sits next to it, untouched.

“But how could Smaug possess Thorin?” Dori inquires, “We all saw the beast perish.”

Fili nods jerkily where he leans against the wall. Once morning comes he must go out and treat with the Lakemen.

Balin clears his throat. “We hope to hear from Gandalf soon. He should be able to clear up that matter.”

“And what if the wizard does not turn up?” Nori says sharply, “Or what if it’s months before he does? We cannot afford to wait so long.”

Balin sighs. “When he was lucid, Thorin gave Fili and myself the go ahead to see after Erebor.”

“The others will never accept that,” Gloin snorts.

Bilbo looks to Ori in question, and Ori leans over. “The other dwarf kingdoms. Once word reaches them we have reclaimed Erebor they will send envoys, and other dwarves will come. Return to their home or looking for work, and they may challenge both Fili and Balin.”

Which means they need to figure this out as quickly as possible.

But, Bilbo thinks and his heart aches, most of all he wishes for this to be solved for Thorin’s sake. It’s barely been a day, yet he already misses his dwarf.

“Have you found anything in the library?” he asks Ori, making certain to speak loud enough to cut through whatever squabbles the rest of the company has engaged in.

Ori frowns. “Most texts on curses were imprecise, though we’ve far from looked at everything.”

“Maybe we should look into dragons,” Bilbo suggests, “Now that we know what’s behind it.”

“But Smaug is dead,” Bofur whines.

Ori grimaces. “Not quite, it would seem.”

***

The following day passes in a haze. Bilbo is aware of Fili, Balin and Gloin leaving the mountain at some point. Oin looks at his injuries and rewraps his headwound, before waving him off toward the library, muttering about dwindling surprise. Then time turns into a strange, drawn-out line. Book after book passes through Bilbo’s hands, until he barely even knows what language he is reading in.

Dragons are ancient.

Dragons are terrible.

Dragons have always ripped history asunder.

He blinks, his eyelids drooping. There is something in these pages, he thinks, some sort of clue. It dances just out of reach, just beyond his grasp.

Bilbo takes another tome. Dragons covet gold. Envy dwarves for their ability to wring treasures from the earth. They are possessive and jealous.  
And magical.

Of course, a fire-breathing, ageless monster would be magical, Bilbo thinks as the word blurs before his eyes. Of course it would not be a plain creation like hobbits are. Or course, history would shift after a dragon’s appearance.

And from the sources often also upon their demise.

Bilbo tilts his head.

Maybe –

Dinner interrupts his research, and over the meager rations Fili tells them that tomorrow he will ferry out gold to Bard. They hope to send a trade mission south – with some luck they will gain some provisions. The dwarves argue to write the other kingdoms, they will help with food at least.

Fili frowns. “I’d like to wait a little longer,” he admits, “Perhaps uncle recovers.”

Bilbo looks at his empty soup bowl. It’s inlaid with precious gems, and yet it is already empty and they can’t eat their treasure. Thorin will not recover on his own; not due to any failing of his own. But dragons are magical creatures and their magic is strong.

Bilbo knows this. He faced down Smaug after all.

He will look into breaking this magic.

His plans get thwarted by Oin who firmly insists that Bilbo goes and sleeps. When Bilbo protests, Oin demonstratively removes his hearing aid.

***

Feeling improved due to having slept – Oin was right, loathe as Bilbo is to admit it – Bilbo hurries toward the library. The hour is yet early, but he is hopeful that today may bring about results. At least something they can attempt.

He shared his ideas with Ori, and the young dwarf had enthusiastically agreed. If they investigate the tomes dedicated to magic, they are bound to find something about possession and curses. Perhaps even some clues as to how to break this. Maybe they don’t even need to wait for Gandalf.

If Smaug only possessed Thorin in the moment of his death, it means it was a desperate move. It is unlikely this sort of spell is well-woven or too difficult to remove.

And that thought makes Bilbo feel confident.

Hopefully soon they’ll be able to leave this all behind, and the pain and fear will be nothing but a bad memory.

***

Bilbo doesn’t quite notice the hours pass. He collects ideas and hints, and feels he has already found some notions worth investigating. Possession, it turns out, is a very fragile construct in general and most books consider it not feasible over long periods. Which would explain why Smaug’s hold over Thorin’s mind wavered. The periods of lucidity.

Bilbo smiles to himself and is about to turn the page, when the echo of heavy footsteps disturbs him. Without looking up, he asks: “What is it,Ori?”

The voice that answers is not Ori’s.

It’s not Thorin’s, either.

But it is Thorin’s body that stands in the entrance, blocking the exit with blood-covered hands, Dwalin’s axe in his hand and a not-quite sane smile on his face. “But I am not Ori, little thief,” he says and saunters forward, swinging the axe like a hobbit lass might swing a flower basket, “I am King under the Mountain.”

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) Next chapter should be up on Friday.


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